


until the heavens roll away

by paxamdays



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: ???i mean??? I guess, Angst, Depression, Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Peterick, Sad, Soul Punk, Soul Punk Era Patrick Stump, but it ends happily so don't worry, literally all of my stories revolve around similar premises jfc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-26 23:28:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16690963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxamdays/pseuds/paxamdays
Summary: Because he could be married with kids by now and earning a respectable living as a doctor or working at a law firm or some shit, he could be doing school drop offs and shopping for groceries every Tuesday after work, but he's not; he's twenty six, he's a step down from washed up, and he's sitting on a fucking balcony at four in the morning, freezing his ass off next to someone who isn't even really there.That someone — this fucking mess of a person, this amalgamation of angst and dumb jokes and too much love to handle — shifts on the concrete, and he finally (emphasis on the finally) turns his head and looks at Patrick, and his lips tug at the corners and form some sad imitation of a smile.





	until the heavens roll away

**Author's Note:**

> *gAsP* what’s this?! two stories in one month? it’s unheard of! unfathomable!
> 
> really, though, this is a thousand words longer than i would’ve wanted it to be. but oh well.
> 
> (set in 2012-ish. title has barely any relevance to the story. see tags for any possible triggers)

The hotel room is chilled over with New York frost when he wakes up to an empty other half of his bed.

Patrick's not sure what to make of it — he's not really certain about anything at the moment, being half asleep — but he knows enough when he sees the glass door leading onto the balcony semi-open and a person sitting on the concrete with their back faced to him. He knows, because it's the same in every city; more often than not, it's a carbon copy situation, just another hotel balcony, just another morning under the same sky and the same stars. With him, as always.

Pete doesn't move when Patrick slides the door slowly and he's as still as ever when Patrick sits down next to him, pulling the blanket over his shoulders and staring down into his lap. It's quiet, and the sky is golden and shines like diamonds before their very eyes. Pink and purple and marigold and a long laundry list of colours which belong weaved through the lines of a poem. It's even colder out here; minus zero, arctic and frozen, numb palms and reddened extremities; his frostbitten fingers slowly and subconsciously intertwine with Pete's.

Pete.

_Pete._

The name is almost like a curse, something sacrilegious and poisonous, burning on his tongue and eating away steadily at his teeth as smoke pools at the back of his throat. He can taste fire, the biting cold, and a lingering memory of his lips all at once.

It's quiet. It stays that way until Pete shifts slightly.

"I listened to your music while you were gone."

He doesn't look up. He doesn't speak very loudly. He doesn't even move (apart from a slight twitching of his fingers, something which sparks a fuse in Patrick's stomach, heat rising into the rest of his body). And then the city, the swirl of colours and morning wind, gets to him in the way that it always does whenever they're here; his shoulders deflate, and he lets out a breath, like the very kind had hurt so much to keep in.

" _Allie's_ about me, right?" He says it like it's a question, but they both already know the answer. Patrick nods, wordless. "Yeah. You just changed the name, I guess. _Petey I was so good back then_ doesn't really sound right, so I'm glad you chose something else. God. Andrew's never going to forgive us for what we did on his bed."

Pete laughs, hushed under the soft wind before dying down, and draws out a sigh with a carefully construed nonchalance that indicates that there's something more in his tone, but he's not willing to reveal its true motives. It's times like these where Patrick wishes he had a pack of Winfields or even something more generic, because it feels like the only thing that, ironically enough, can stop him from suffocating on the thick intensity in the air.

Out of nowhere, pulling Patrick out of his convoluted and shitty thoughts, Pete parts his lips.

"I'm sorry." 

Patrick doesn't speak.

He doesn't know enough about what Pete went through during the years they were apart; saying _'enough'_ might even be a stretch. The truth is, _he's_ the one who didn't stay in contact, not Pete. He's the one who never met up with the other, never called or even sent a fucking text. Had Patrick not made music or any of the promotional shit to go along with it, he might as well have been dead to Pete, who probably would have assumed just as much. The years have seemingly matured him — factoring in the hiatus, the divorce, withdrawal from the spotlight, as well as having a kid — and Patrick doesn't know if that's given him a new mindset or not, but he's not sure if Pete could ever forgive him for not keeping in touch.

Patrick doesn't deserve any apologies. Especially not from _him,_ of all people.

"Don't be sorry", he murmurs, voice timid and echoing his thoughts. "You shouldn't be. You never did anything wrong."

Pete scoffs. "That's bullshit, and you know it."

"It's not." Patrick turns his head and watches the way Pete's eyebrows twitch, how his lips quiver and his cheeks redden. He still won't look at him, and Patrick doesn't know why it makes him so goddamn angry, because he's really got no reason to feel that way. "I never came over to check if you were okay. I never tried to talk to you about it. I didn't even call you. That's not your fault, Pete. I just— I just couldn't deal with it. And I left, and I don't know if I can ever make things okay again but— but I'm sorry. About everything." 

Pete doesn't respond.

He just watches the skyline, and he almost feels like a fucking ghost, because he's barely even there and Patrick wants to scream so goddamn badly. Things were never meant to be this hard. Things are never meant to be so difficult for dumb Midwestern kids like him. He wasn't made for this life, and this life clearly never wanted him. The complexity of it all makes him want to scream even more, because he could be married with kids by now and earning a respectable living as a doctor or working at a law firm or some shit, he could be doing school drop offs and shopping for groceries every Tuesday after work, but he's not; he's twenty six, he's a step down from washed up, and he's sitting on a fucking balcony at four in the morning, freezing his ass off next to someone who isn't even _there._

That someone — this fucking mess of a person, this amalgamation of angst and dumb jokes and too much love to handle — shifts on the concrete, and he finally (emphasis on the _finally)_ turns his head and looks at Patrick, and his lips tug at the corners and form some sad imitation of a smile. 

A realisation dawns upon Patrick as the smile tattoos itself to the back of his eyelids. Because it's not like it's ever been easy for Pete either; he knows how he feels, knows how the long and endless nights have always affected him, accumulated like gaming tokens and taken their toll on his mind and his heart, but he's always tried to cover it up with this signature weary smile and a snarky remark. Patrick knows about his journals, those battered Moleskines filled with poetry and writings and thoughts that don't make enough sense in his head. 

And he knows how Pete feels about _twenty eight,_ how he never wanted to get that far, would have much rather preferred to close his eyes once more and drift off into a sleep that just might have placed him among the likes of Cobain, Joplin, Morrison. Because maybe then (in Pete's words, not his; never his), _maybe then people might see me for something else. Not some guy who wrote alright lyrics, a decent bassist who tried his hardest to make it. Instead, I'd be remembered as a number, another bullet point on a long list of tragedies — immortalized as a mediocre musician and all-round asshole who doesn't deserve to be in some stupid fucking club. But I...I think I'm okay with that, Patrick._

Patrick wasn't, though. Not a fucking chance in hell.

"Pete? Say something. Fucking hell, say anything."

He doesn't.

Patrick's stomach drops.

Maybe he isn't the same person he used to be. Maybe he doesn't fantasise about overdosing on antidepressants in hotel bathtubs anymore. But to Patrick, there will always be this fear gnawing away at the back of his mind, this little voice sending biting accusations to every lobe, making the message loud and so fucking clear: _You left him. He could have done it. And you wouldn't have ever known, because you didn't care enough to stay._

"I really did miss you", Pete mumbles; it's something unexpected, not a response to the piss-poor excuse of an apology. He pulls his hand away, so slow that Patrick's fingers slip off like his skin is made of ice, and pulls his knees in tight to his chest, and words seemingly grace his lips, but he doesn't let them out. Patrick shuffles closer, the concrete scraping his palms.

"Why?" And it really does confuse him, because Pete shouldn't be so...placid. He should be screaming and yelling and telling him about all the shit he went through, how Patrick just left him and now he has the _audacity_ to say that _he_ couldn't deal with things and _he's_ sorry. Patrick feels, honest to god, like such a piece of shit. But then, Pete laughs a little, like it all means nothing to him.

"Why shouldn't I have? I'd known you for over eight years before the band broke up. You don't just try to push someone out of your mind when you're with them for that long. Especially when they're someone like you. But I suppose— oh, god, I'm so tired. I'm not making any sense anymore, am I?"

He laughs again; Patrick's eyes burn in their sockets. 

"I shouldn't talk when I'm tired", Pete jokes. "I'm basically running off three hours of sleep and a bit of Smirnoff from last night. The afterparties are fun, aren't they? They're good for you, I think. You need a little bit more of that in your life. Fun, I mean. Not vodka."

Patrick blinks, uncertain. "I'm not sure if I'm following here." 

He's met with eyes that are suddenly wide, pleading almost. Then those irises seems to fade into a lighter shade of whiskey, hot like a flame, like something Patrick had written long ago but stopped from turning into a song. Something else for Pete to scrutinise and obsess over. The goddamn album might as well have been called _Pete Wentz I love you and I'm a fucking idiot. Please take me back._

 _Soul Punk_ is, admittedly, easier to roll off the tongue. And far less obvious.

"The parties after your shows. The ones that Travie arranges. Fuck, I miss Travie too. How's he going, anyway?"

"That's not what I was asking, Pete." 

"Then what is it?"

Patrick doesn't know what he's supposed to say to that; Pete can see it in him, like it's just so damn obvious. The darkness feels heavier, weighing down on his shoulders, leaking out of every crack in his body like he's made of broken porcelain; it's as if the stars have sunken into the sky, retreating back behind the clouds and hiding away in the vast and inky night. He just doesn't know. Pete is aware of this, too.

"You're always gonna be on my mind, Trick", he says softly, substituting Patrick's answer for his own. "Because you're you, and you mean the world to me. And we lost those years, but I don't blame you for anything. It's not like I called either. We needed the time apart. We needed to be our own people for a bit. And I'm never going to hold anything against you because of it."

There's this dizzying sensation that washes over the both of them simultaneously, and Patrick's head is... _spinning,_ to say the least. Pete just sighs and leans back, and Patrick — lovesick, nauseous, stupid, _stupid_ Patrick — can't tell if there's any motive behind it. But his eyes are soft and hazel and glisten in the lowlight, his lips are chapped, yet parted like there's more he wants to say, and he's stopped before he can go on. 

"I missed you too. I missed you so fucking much. Oh my god."

"Is that a good _oh my god,_ or something else?"

A pause. "Good, I guess. I don't know. It's not bad. Nothing's bad."

"That's...good."

They are hesitant, and it's awkward for a brief moment while the two of them search for an appropriate follow-up. Then they just kind of laugh, and Patrick is tracing the way Pete's features stand out, illuminated by moonlight, like he's an entity made of stardust and something more; his eyelashes are long and honey-soaked, spun from gold, and Patrick drops his head onto Pete's shoulder. His vision is fuzzy at the ends, with flickering faded lights painting his lenses and making everything seem less dull. It's all mellow, gentle ripples of cool colours when Pete exhales and washes the world in a coat of muted tones.  

"I like this", he says softly; _mmhm_ is the almost inaudible reply. "Because I'm fine, and you're fine. And we're both okay for once." And he says it — _means it_ — with enough sincerity for it almost to sound like a tired _I love you,_ ringing out through Patrick's ears like a siren.

"Yeah", Patrick whispers back. "I guess we are." 

"We're okay. The two of us. Pete and Patrick, Patrick and Pete. It feels good, doesn't it?" he murmurs. He can't see it, but Patrick offers back a secure smile. 

"We've always been good", he murmurs. "Nothing's going to change it. You get me, don't you?" 

There are no more words exchanged between the two of them, but the sudden warmth that creeps over his hand and the bitten down nails digging softly into his skin are a better response than anything else. And then they're quiet again, for a few seconds, a few minutes, maybe even an eternity, and Pete's voice is light static when it catches on the early morning wind.

"I do."

The sky shines like gold.


End file.
